


Motionless

by Siera_Writes



Series: Small Steps [1]
Category: Hat Films - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Character with symptoms of depression, Fighting, Gen, Multi, Pining, Polyamory, RPS - Freeform, Running, The violence shouldn't be too graphic, Uni AU, bamf!trott, hatsome, he will finally have his chance to shine I assure you, it's more of a just in case that I added that and raised the rating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-21 02:54:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3674772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siera_Writes/pseuds/Siera_Writes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trott knows he looks awful, and knows he's looked awful for the past few months, if not longer. Smudges of grey hold permanent residence below his eyes, which are dull and brackish and lacking that spark. He's tired, almost perpetually so, but not just from lack of sleep. Life is exhausting, but it's so difficult to explain to others quite what this means, that he had begun to spare himself the awkward pauses, the worried glances. He doesn't bother anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stagnant

Letting out a heavy sigh, the brunet admits defeat, flicking his fringe out of his face agitatedly. Leaning back, the office chair complains as he raises his arms as far as possible above his head, accepting the resulting burn below his arms, and scrunches his toes. Editing is going nowhere. In fact, it is tedious. Whatever force commands continuity in the universe, it certainly wants no hand in Trott finishing his coursework on time.

He braces his hands against the desk, pushing off, wincing as the chair scrapes over the Lino. Some of the wheels are stuck, he'd been meaning to get them changed, or replaced, or even just buy a new one...

No such luck.

A quick glance over his shoulder reveals the landscape beyond, across the sound, blinds barring his view; dusky skies, city threatening on the horizon like a crown of thorns, and beyond that, clouds encroaching like hulking shadows. It seems that the brief spell of decent weather is soon to be over once again. Pinpricks of light stud the heavens in the darker regions of the sky, a strange parallel to the glowing rectangles quickly spreading through the skyline. A gently warping mirror of it coils on the still surface of the sound.

If he were in a better mood, the sight might have rallied his spirits, but Trott is way past caring at this point. He huffs a laugh to himself while he smirks, amused at the idea of being enthralled by the view. He is way too tired for this romantic bullshit.

Curling his inactivity-chilled hands around the arms of his chair, he pushes himself to a stand, reaching skyward again, back popping, and proceeds from the room, computer humming dejectedly.

The exhausted man shuffles down the hallway, darkness cloaking the space. He's been editing so long, from early afternoon, that he'd had no need for lights to be switched on. He can feel the autumn chill setting in, the slight cooling of the air in rooms where the windows are still bare.

Trott can't be arsed to switch the lights on as he walks, though, and waits until he reaches the inadequate kitchen space of his apartment, lazily pawing and skimming the manila wall in the rough area just below shoulder height he knows the switch to be, and flicking it upon finding it.

He's so bored.

This isn't the first time he's admitted this to himself. Far from it. It's a constant burden on his shoulders, a ceaseless buzz at the back of his skull. All work, no play. He's been that way as long as he knows. There's nothing worse than being a perfectionist and a chronic procrastinator. He thinks of his guitar in his box of a room: unplayed for weeks, coating of dust growing heavier.

Lurching towards the cramped fridge, he rakes his eyes through its contents, attempting to visualise how he'll magic up a meal. There's nothing. Time for the old favourite then.

Trott slumps to grab the milk bottle, flicks the door behind him with a bare foot, and crosses the few feet to the hob, cheap laminate tacky against his soles. Two mugs, one for soup, the other for tea, and he's done. Unsatisfied, and equally, unsurprised, he then heads back to his room, knowing he'll not stay there. He'll just be back at the computer. Again.

The cycle must repeat.

\---

Trott knows he looks awful, and knows he's looked awful for the past few months, if not longer. Smudges of grey hold permanent residence below his eyes, which are dull and brackish and lacking that spark. He's tired, almost perpetually so, but not just from lack of sleep. Life is exhausting, but it's so difficult to explain to others quite what this means, that he had begun to spare himself the awkward pauses, the worried glances. He doesn't bother anymore.

He knows he should get out more, and he keeps up the facade of activity - hair neatly (perfectly, painstakingly) brushed to the side, fringe just so. Jeans to be casual, but smart tops, jumpers, so he looks like he's making an effort. And oh, is he. It takes so much effort.

He keeps himself out of trouble (out of sight, out of mind), and for a while, that was enough.

Trouble. Hmm-

Trott snaps back, snaps back to the moment, sees himself in the mirror, plans for the evening solidifying in his brain, and everything's suddenly real, he's in the moment, he knows exactly what he's going to do. It's a stupid idea, damned stupid. But to have an actual grip on reality, some way of connecting again, Trott knows is important, and that's smart.

And damned if Trott isn't smart.

A smile cuts across his face, and any onlooker would have their blood chilled by that look, he knows, brown eyes flat and somehow bottomless, unfathomable, cruel smirk plastered, hair falling in his face. He's out of the habit of smiling genuinely. His hands are carved in a death lock around the sink, and his reflection stares back with dark amusement.

He's gonna get drunk.

\---

The short walk was bracing, the chill seeping through his - admittedly, badly planned clothing.

The bar is not particularly dive-y, nor a top class establishment. The decor's dated, sure, but arguably homely compared to the pretentious monochrome and minimalism of other places. A pleasant buzz has sunk into Trott's brain, the drink nursed before him, between his crossed arms resting on the mahogany bar, feeding relaxation and lies directly to his brain and heavy limbs. His blood sings a dulcet cacophony of calm. The patrons seem generally well behaved; laughter, banter, all blended into comforting white noise. Retro music, stuff he recognises, eighties and all that shit, is being played from somewhere, and he feels content.

Two bodies approach to his right, around his age, so far as his addled brain can compute. Both tall. And male. A faint twinge of recognition flickers in the recess where his awareness seems to be slumbering. Obviously together... Wait. No. Not like that.

Trott blinks, shakes his head sluggishly where it hangs, his shoulders rounded as he supports himself above his glass. Not in that way. Of course. It takes longer than he would like to admit to force his brain to keep some sort of intelligible internal conversation happening.

He's very drunk. His head's beginning to throb. Limbs straining against the reigns of his consciousness. Home. Now. Cool air will probably help shock himself into action and reaction again.

Trott attempts to straighten up, but ends up elbowing the darker haired of the pair as he stumbles from the stool, apartment keys clinking in the pocket of his leather jacket. He tries to convey an apology, but his tongue feels leaden, and his thoughts are treacle. Both blue pairs of eyes, one icy, the other steely, have focused intently on him - they have obviously had far less to drink. Trott raises his palms shakily, to apologise, but the darker haired one is trying to say something, seemingly earnest, then meets the auburn's eyes, but Trott can't hear him for the blood rushing through his skull, can't understand him, and he's worried now.

They both stand. Woah. They really are tall.

Trott lists, stumbles away, hears snippets, but Trott is not turning back, no way. A fight would not do right now. He's pretty confident of his abilities sober, but now...

The crowd presses close, but he forces his way through, then splays both palms over the door as he exits in a frenzy. The cold hits him like a fist, and the harsh air through his gasping mouth makes his teeth tingle. Tatters of vapour spiral from his mouth as he breathes heavily, heart still racing. He can feel the darkness approaching, vague fuzziness narrowing his field of vision.

No. Don't let him black-out here. Not now.

His stomach is churning.

A clunk resounds - the door has been forcibly pushed open, and has hit the archway guarding the bar's entrance - not five seconds after the door had closed behind him. Footsteps slap on concrete and voices hum. Trott turns, panicked, towards the noise, and his head spins, and he's falling, ground rising up to smack him, and blackness-

\---

He hisses as light strikes his retinas mercilessly, scrunching his eyelids, swiftly whimpering for the effect this has on the agony that is his brain at that moment. His hands unconsciously curl into fists, and Trott has to take a moment to try to salvage the fragmented remains of whatever happened last night.

He slowly, cautiously, cracks open his left eye, still squinting, and snarls at the new wave of discomfort that washes through him. Where is he? He's not in his apartment - Trott does not recognise the sofa he is lay on, nor the heavy blanket cocooning him. Wait... Voices, he hears them now, some way away in another room, are murmuring lowly, hiding their words from Trott's ears. The two men. Shit.

At least nothing untoward seems to have happened.

He shifts gingerly, and the threadbare sofa creaks. Trott inhales through gritted teeth.

They've stopped talking. Shit.

Now he can hear footfalls approach. "Shit."

His brain's working overtime, trying to figure out how to escape from this mess. He manages to push himself up, blanket hindering his progress. He plants his back firmly against the sofa back, hating how everything makes the pain in his head worse.

He fixes a glare on his face, taking the room and its fixings into account; it's small, manila walling (god, he can't escape it), a single rickety coffee table in the centre, the only sofa the one he's sitting on. The light through the window to the sofa's left is muted (barely) by thin, cheap curtains. The door to his right is slightly ajar. Student housing. His jacket has been set on the floor, and Trott feels slightly violated by that action being done without his permission, while he was caught in the realms of booze-addled unconsciousness.

He sets his teeth into a grimace, preparing, against the will of both his body and his pained (pained, pained) skull.

The door creaks open, the first lout (nice eyes - shit) hesitantly pushing the the door further open, peeking through, mass of auburn hair unwieldy and flopping in his face. Trott almost laughs, the scenario of the stupidly tall, pretty-eyed man stooping in some attempt to be cautious, to make himself smaller and less intimidating. It's actually kinda adorable. He locks down on that train of thought immediately.

Realising that Trott is, in actuality, awake, the man drops the charade, and blatantly walks in, self-consciously running a hand through his already too-messy hair. An uncertain smile crosses his face.

“Hi,” He starts, but upon seeing Trott's face like stone, he falters, “Uh... You're Chris Trott, right? You do the Film course, yeah?”

Trott scowls, knowing he's seen this other man somewhere before, frustrated that a combination of last night's alcohol and the rest of the year's apathy has stopped him from remembering.

“Who are you.” It's not really posed like a question, Trott knows. However, his mood isn't being helped by feeling foolish, still firmly trussed up in the blanket. He resists the urge to clear his throat, the combination of just having woken up and disuse making it gravelly. The anger helps too. “Why do you need to know?”

The man brings his hands forward, as though to wring them, then lowers them to either side, level with his thighs, hands clutching, as though attempting to grasp a guide for the conversation. “Um. I'm Alex Smith. Ross - my house mate, Ross Hornby - he's in your same film course.”

Ah, that explained it then, yeah.

“Why am I here then?”

“Well. You didn’t look too good, mate. Me ‘n Ross, we weren’t even sure you’d make it back to your place.” A pause, and the man looks distinctly uncomfortable, and lowers both his voice and his eyes, and shuffles his feet, “If you even wanted to get back to wherever.”

Trott's heart speeds, and a bitter laugh escapes from him, from somewhere deep inside. Without thinking, and cruelly, he snaps back, “Why would you care.” The implications behind the 'you' are very much clear. Hurt is a flash in Alex's eyes, and he straightens, eyebrows furrowing. His lips go thin, and he swiftly changes the subject.

“Well, mate, if you want breakfast, whatever, painkillers - I'm sure your head's killing you – come down to the kitchen, and then you can head to your apartment. Either that or you can just leave,” he heads to the door now, bitterness tingeing his voice, ”And forget that some people in this world do try to do good things.”

With that he's gone. Trott sighs, relaxes back into the sofa from where he'd unconsciously been holding his spine rigid, his fists balled. The pain's returning to full force, every pulse in his chest increasing it. He shakily peels the now suffocating blanket from his body, and notices the cold sheen of stale sweat from the evening before, tutting. His distaste is almost tangible, his tee sticking to his back oppressively, like a large clammy hand pushing down on him. The brunet reaches down for his jacket, pulls it on, fumbles with the zipped pocket to check for his keys, which... yep, they're still there. Trott laces up his shoes, and stands, waiting for the dizziness to wash through from his head to his feet.

With care, Trott passes through the door, sure not to alert the men to having vacated the room. He brushes the fringe out of his vision (it really needs to get cut), and looks to his right, seeing the door to leave. The smell of coffee, surprisingly good coffee, invades is senses, his stomach clenches, and for a second, he considers turning left, towards voices, company (warmth?), but spite overtakes him, and the brown haired man walks to the door, squares his shoulders, and leaves.


	2. Lethargy

Christ that did not go how he intended. The auburn haired man hesitates on the other side of the door to the living room where Chris – (no, not Chris, he doesn't even want to know you) - Trott is. Alex raises his hands up to cup his voice, gulping in a single large breath, then hastily releasing it, pulling his hands down his face wearily. He proceeds left down the short hallway to the kitchen, where Ross awaits news of the situation.

Lifting his right hand, Alex presses the flat of his palm against the rather insubstantial door, stepping forward and using his momentum to gently cast it open. Ross is leaning against the far counter, a plain white mug cradled between his palms, lower portion of his face ducked behind it, almost like a mischievous child that knows they've done wrong, and is attempting to hide. His eyes ask the unspoken question.

Alex sighs. “Nah mate. Went shit.”

Ross huffs a small laugh, as Alex reaches for the second mug of coffee that Ross had prepared. “To be honest, we both knew what was gonna happen.”

“Yeah...” He leans back next to Ross, shoulder to shoulder, window behind them letting a sizeable portion of cool autumn light slice past them, to the floor. Their shadows meld on the floor. The room is quiet for a minute or two, both more than comfortable with each other's silences. The cheap clock hung on a skewed nail over the kitchen doorway clicks hollowly, the small fridge whirs softly, and early morning bird-call can be faintly heard from the trees outside.

“I'm guessing he's left by now,” Ross states, knowing the answer.

“He would have to've been pretty quiet.”

Ross turns minutely, flicking his eyes towards the other man, a small smile quirking the corner of his mouth. “Yeah mate, that's what he's always like, see. Keeps himself to himself, and that's the whole problem here.”

"S'pose, yeah..." He trails off, trying to allow the companionable silence to return, but there's something not quite right now, an unsettled air, and suddenly Alex is very much aware of how close he stands to Ross, his best friend, and-

No. 

Not now, not ever. 

Alex clears his throat, shuffles on his feet, while Ross fidgets with his mug. The auburn man swiftly necks the remainder of his coffee, and uses it as an excuse to step briskly away, fumbling as he places the mug down unevenly. He cringes at the tinny clatter it produces, then turns to face Ross. His heart's quick-stepping. He's gonna do it, say something, got to-

"Hey y'bastards." He swears he didn't feel his heart beat for a second or two. Somehow, Sips had seemed to just materialise, much in the same way that he left Canada and arrived at their Uni, achieved his nickname, and became fast friends with the two Brits, in part due to his foul language and matching humour, and his uncanny ability to make increasingly obscure references.

Ross, facing the door, was obviously not fazed. "Oh, hey Sips."

Alex murmurs a similar greeting, trying to reign his heartbeat back in. His palms are sweaty. Whatever burgeoning atmosphere had been created before his arrival, Sips had most certainly cleared it - at least for the time being.

Sips' next question is given with the Canadian's typical level of tact. "So who was the good lookin' guy who stormed out of your apartment? Didn't you guys give him a good enough time?" A faux lascivious smile plasters itself over his face.

"Jesus Sips!" Ross seems just as taken aback as Alex, ice eyes wide, surprised expression matching the taller man's, but he attempts to play along jokingly. "What does that even mean?" 

It's not the first time Sips has hinted at being aware of Alex's crush, (no, not a crush, appreciation) let alone anything else, and doubtless it's not the last. Christ. And then including Chr - (no, Trott) in the scenario too. Shit.

Alex scrabbles for a suitably insulting-yet-knowledgable response. He grits his teeth, and half shouts in his trademark way, "Freudian slip much, mate?!"

"So, who was that guy?" The Canadian seems distracted enough by that not to angle the conversation to where it seemed likely to head, relieving him. Thank God. 

\---

Trott wakes from his slumped position at his desk, bleary eyed and vague, brain swamped in lethargy. A great weekend. Two days on from his inadvisable drink, and his thoughts seem tethered to the two men, grounding him, almost. Practically any time he slips from reality, any time the present takes on the gossamer coating of unreality, he's suddenly drawn back to them and. He. Hates. It.

He looks down to his left hand, clenching it repeatedly into a fist, blankly watching skin shift over flexing tendons, muscle, and bone. 

His neck is stiff, seized up and unwieldy, like a corroded machine. Leaning his neck as far as he can to both sides, he clicks it, attempting to free up the recalcitrant vertebrae. 

He sighs, pushes his lithe frame upright in the creaking chair, and clenches his feet to get the blood flowing again.

The simple table clock says it's late on Sunday. Street lamps illuminating his room from the outside say it's late on Sunday. It seems he has slept through the majority of the day. Oh well.

Trott slaps the mouse once, lightly, to prompt the computer back to semi-wakefulness. Nothing happens. A void-black screen remains. Crap. Only now does he realise he can't hear the plaintive murmur of his aged desktop. He outright glares at the unresponsive screen, snarling expletives. When was the last time he saved the project?

"No!" He slams his hands flat down on the desk, immediately burying his head in his hands, hearing the thrumming reverberations echoing due to the paltry amount of decoration in the room. He grinds out, "I cannot fucking deal with this," though to whom, the brunet isn't quite sure. He's confused by his reaction, knowing he didn't really get much extra done anyway, but the irrational irritation is still burning between his lungs and in his throat and at the base of his skull.

"Going for a walk," he spits out, partially to quell his angry psyche, practically flinging the chair away behind himself, and sweeps fluidly from the room, not bothering to close blinds and curtains in his room. He pulls his boots on, grabs frantically at his leather jacket, pulling it on roughly. Assured steps carry him the short distance to the door out of the apartment, steps resounding flatly on the linoleum flooring.

Not caring about the noise that it will produce, Trott flees from his place of mundane incarceration, slamming the door behind himself with barely any effort, anger an acid in his veins.

\---

When the fog of anger clears from his head, Trott can suddenly smell the heady sharp perfume of chill night air tinged with a smoky edge of city pollutants. Traffic rushes by behind him, hissing like the wind. A slight breeze from the sound surrounds him, caressing his face and playing with his hair, strands slipping across his forehead pleasingly. The bridge he's stood on is old, but well kept, white stone greyed by oxidation and soot. Elegant street lamps tower every ten or so metres on either side of him, sodium-flame yellow warming his surroundings. 

The city is around him proper, now. He can feel it. He can feel it through the bridge, vibrations traveling up his legs, and his arms where his hands tense across the ornate stone walling. The vehicles sigh sibilantly to him in hushing breaths. 

Hardly anyone is out now, unsurprisingly. Though the sky is clear - the moon is an easily visible baleful eye, just slightly haloed as moisture up high refracts the light - and there is no rain, the air is bitter cold. Even now, the brunet can feel it seep through his jacket and latch leech-like to his skin. 

But he's calm now, and that's the main thing. 

Trott hunches his shoulders, bows his head, and sucks in a deep, refreshing breath through his mouth, eyes smarting and teeth flaring from the cold.

He pushes off the railing, heading back the way he came, dragging his fingertips across the smooth but interrupted stone surface.

The walk gets his heart working once more, blood speeding, further clearing any of the remaining quagmire from his consciousness, washing it away in broad sweeps.

He bears right, ignoring the walkway alongside the road, instead following a pedestrian route that follows the river. A set of even steps, the same stone as the bridge, leads down, meeting with cobbles ranging from slate grey to dove grey. The path is quite wide, maybe seven metres from river's edge to buildings' facades. A once glossy black, now peeling, wrought iron fence hugs the lands edge. The rushing of cars blurs into the background, and residential buildings begin to appear more often, as businesses peter out. 

Trott hears laughing, shouting, crying; sounds of lives being lived. A nostalgia for his earlier years returns. A desire to feel a purpose again. He clamps down immediately, knowing that this is an issue he has to face at some point, but if he can just ignore it, just hide it, push it away, pretend it's not there, then maybe it'll stop.

He know's that's not how it works, though. 

Trott stops. Looks around him. He finds himself outside their apartment, and has no idea why. He doesn't even want to see them again (does he?). Even knowing he'll see Ross tomorrow puts him on edge (thrills him?)

Thrusting his hands resolvedly in his jeans pockets, Trott tilts his head back, sighing, chuckles a little in disbelief, and walks away.


	3. Static

Trott wakes gasping from his dream, heart fluttering fitfully, hands clutched in fists by his sides, and eyes wide open. 

Harsh light is already striking his retinas, the insufficient curtains barely muting the illumination at all, and he blanches, screwing his eyes shut instinctively. Stretching in preparation for the coming day, his duvet is dislodged, and the sudden influx of cold air prompts shivers from him as the hairs on his arms stands on end.

The brunet groans as awareness returns, the obfuscation of slumber lifting at an increasing rate. Monday. Work to do. 

It's been a long time since Trott woke remembering his dreams, such a long time. He can't recall very much of it though, just shadowy snippets which slip from his grasping consciousness every time he reaches. They are there though. He can't get away from them. 

He lifts the heels of his hands to his eyes, and scrubs lightly, before sitting up unaided, hands remaining on his face. The years of karate as a child are still paying off somewhat. His lips quirk genuinely at that thought. He looks smoothly towards the clock, twisting his upper body, and registering the uncommonly decent time he had awoken at, continuing to stretch his limbs and neck.

Cursing the lack of heating - he forgot (couldn't be arsed) to set it - Trott speedily showers, then dresses, jeans and a nicely fitting tee. He pulls on a hoodie, relieved at the reprieve from the chill. He realises, while stepping down the hallway, that he's in better spirits than he has been for a while, and he doesn't know whether to be enraged or overjoyed. He knows the exact cause (causes), and imagines the smug face that would be plastered to each of the pair of jock wannabes if they knew.

A grimace seats itself on his face, at odds with the pleasant energy flowing in his blood, and Trott resigns himself to the strange agony of the day ahead. 

The rest of the course doesn't bear thinking about.

Trott seats himself neatly at the small table in his tiny kitchenette, waiting for the kettle to boil, and munching on a dry, barely buttered, slice of toast, staring blankly through the wall, focused on nothing in particular, brain toiling over how he should treat the two men. 

Eventually, the kettle jolts him out of his reverie, but he thinks he knows what he'll do. Surely, treating them how he always has - that is to say, pretty much ignoring them - will work.

He knows it won't.

\---

Ross glances up from his phone, curious. Smith is clattering about, almost frantically. it takes a while to notice Ross staring at him.

"Y' seen my charger, mate?" Smith's eyes skip across the room, not looking directly at Ross as he questions him. "Could'a sworn I left it here-"

The taller man's eyes zero in on the mobile in Ross' hand, following the path of the wire to the socket on the wall, realisation dawning. "Oh come on, that's not even yours." 

"Why do you always get pissy about a phone charger, of all things? We have the same phone, what does it matter who's charger I use?"

"Look, we always have this argument. That charger is for my phone, and my phone only. How hard is that to understand?" The auburn haired man has drawn himself to his full height, and leans forward to brace his hands on the table top. Ross just stares up at him in disbelief for a few seconds. Upon seeing the low likelihood of Smith giving up at this point, he just sighs pointedly in assent, and unplugs his phone, holding his hand flat for the other man's phone.

Alex runs a hand through his hair, seemingly uncaring of how messy it is now. Ross watches him breathe a long draught of air in and out. "Sorry. Sorry, I just guess I'm worried," and he clears his throat, concern unsubtle, "Um, about Trott, he didn't seem great. Just, keep an eye out."

Ross immediately switches his voice to its most soothing, knowing what Alex is unintentionally voicing, pushing down on the brief twinge of hurt that bursts below his ribs, the images of his best friend, then Trott, then the two of them, firing fleetingly through his mind. "I know. We already agreed I would after it happened, right?"

Alex nods at him jerkily, but his fears seem put to rest, at least for now.

Ross moves to stand, checking the time all the while, then turns to the man on the other side of the room. "I'll tell you how it goes. Honestly, he'll be there, and he'll be fine." Ross holds his eye for a second, wishing he could wordlessly convey his thoughts to the other man.

He just nods and leaves, Ross following a few heartbeats later.

\---

Trott sees him. He knows he's there. He's not gonna let on though. Just keep a stony expression, and face forward. Any time Trott does look around, he ensures his gaze slips straight over him like a river over stones. He isn't going to give him the satisfaction of attention.

But his hands are clammy and he's left wiping his hands restlessly over his jeans. He swears his cheeks must be aflame. The day's presentation blurs, and he finds it difficult to stay in the moment, mind constantly flitting from tangent to tangent at the drop of a hat. Occasionally, his hand slips on his pencil, and he catches it before it drops to the floor, adrenaline swamping his veins unpleasantly. He keeps pushing his fringe from his eyes, remembering that it needs to be cut, and soon. He catches himself jumping his legs ceaselessly sometimes, and glances around, catching the annoyed looks aimed sideways at him. Someone, a pretty girl with shoulder length burning-calcium red hair, even tries to mouth, "Are you okay?" to him.

His only response, unnerved by the concern, is a toothy grin, and the girl turns her head, blushing, but not before flicking her eyes above his shoulder. Trott is somewhat taken aback. Before he can stop himself, he turns to fleetingly scout around his whereabouts, but catches the eyes of Ross Hornby, who is staring directly at him from a few seats to the back and left, and looking quite sour. Trott flinches, as though burned, and his spine feels as though it has been replaced by an immovable steel rod. His shoulders clench close to his ears, which by this point must be burning. Irritation flickers through him, immediately replaced by suspicion. Why him?

Before he knows it, the class is over, and Trott races to escape the room, very much aware of the darker haired man's attempts to follow him, to talk to him. For once in his life, he's thankful for his height and build, swiftly carving a path for himself through the crowds at quite a pace, leaving the other man in the dust. 

The front door of the building is approaching, and unable to resist the temptation, the brunet turns to see Ross, looking lost, (and... Sad?) as he frantically searches the crowd for him.

The self-satisfaction of his escape is eclipsed by unsettling guilt as his stomach drops, and his paces decline to a slow walk as he tries to pull his wits about him once more, to leave the building. He stutteringly increases his speed again, but cannot return to his earlier jovial feeling. 

The cold wind robs his breath as he steps out, winding him, and the earlier brilliant crisp sun is diluted by glowering clouds. He knew that good spell wouldn't have lasted much longer. 

At least he could be certain about something.

\---

As Ross searched for a seat in the lecture hall, he ran his eyes around the hall, down the reams of chairs, looking for any hint of the shorter man. It didn't take long; the man looked in a bad way, hands coiling and clenching on the desk in front of him, and continually shifting agitatedly. His head was bowed somewhat, and his shoulders were pulled up slightly. The man's hoodie is draped carelessly over the back of the chair, and from his seat, Ross can see the outline of the man's shoulder blades, the plane of his back rounded and hunched, twitching of tendons in his arms and hands as he fidgets.

Ross is embarrassed by how little attention he pays to what the lecturer is saying, instead fixated on the smaller man. Trott doesn't seem to know that he's there; indeed his vision never truly alights on him when he occasionally scans the room. 

Ross is bored now, though, can't wait to be out of the hall, maybe talk to Trott, though about what, he's not sure. He'll probably just check he's doing alright. 

The other man keeps fiddling with his pencil, almost dropping it a few times, only to save it with hair trigger reflexes. Ross is impressed. Trott would be good at some of the games he and Smith play...

Why is he thinking like that?

Ross shakes his head, to alleviate the increasingly domestic images that perpetuate in his head, of Trott being included with him and Smith. No, Trott does not like them, does not want to even know them. 

So why does Ross feel this need to know Chris? 

Trott. 

Jesus, he really needs to sort himself out. 

A pain in his right hand draws his vision downward, to where his right hand is tightly clenched around his pen, and must have been for the last while, if the cramp is any indication. He hisses under his breath as his left hand massages the tender flesh around his thumb. He flicks his eyes up, to begin to listen to the professor, but movement draws his eye.

A girl, bright hair and square jaw, is communicating with Trott. Ross frowns, wondering what she was trying to tell him. The girl seems to notice his staring, and upon noting his perturbed expression, quickly turns away, cheeks heating to a rosy pink. 

Before he can ponder the meaning of her reaction, Trott turns to him, and Ross is struck dumb by those dark eyes locking with his, even for that brief second. Panic sets into him, realising the shorter man has caught him staring, but he's turned away already.

Shit. What does the he think Ross was staring at him for? He's much less likely to want to talk to them at this rate.

He runs through scenarios in his head, trying to plan out how he's going to talk to Trott after class, what he's going to say, the possible reactions that may occur, and the responses he should have for each. He's just trying to work out the most likely conversation that he will end up having, when the hall's volume begins to rise, and everybody leaves. Ross can see the other man moving away at quite the pace, somehow flitting between the bodies surrounding him efficiently and unimpeded. Ross fares much differently, trying and failing to politely get past, and ending up barging past the majority of people, all the while trying to make sure he keeps his eyes on the other man. 

It's not use though. Trott doesn't look back once.

Ross is left desperately scanning the crowd not once catching a glimpse of the other man. Distress, shocking in its vividness, catches in his throat, and makes him burn with embarrassment.

He begins to head back to his apartment, to wait for Smith, and to tell him that Trott, at the very least, attended class.


	4. Equilibrium

Ross is sat on the lumpy sofa with his legs slightly apart, hands clasped, and undersides of his forearms resting on his jeans. Keeping his head down, he flicks his eyes up to check the time. He's been sat here for too long, psyching himself up for what happens next.

Smith arrives back from work with a slammed door and an even louder sigh. There's an interval of about a second, as the man pauses after toeing his shoes off, then proceeds with shuffling steps down the short hallway to the kitchen. Ross knows the routine by now, and even sat in their paltry living room, he can follow the taller man's movements, play by play. Glass out of the cupboard, fill from the tap, drink in one swig, slam down on worktop, and done.

It's only been a week since what has become labelled by the pair, only semi-jokingly, as the 'Bar Incident', took place, and even fewer days - six – since Trott was strewn inelegantly over the very sofa Ross is now sinking into. It somewhat irks him that Smith hasn't come near it since. 

He's sat there to make a point, of course.

Ross has a plan. 

“Mate, fancy going out tonight?” He waits for the considering pause that Smith has taken to come to an end.

“Why?” There's an edge to the auburn haired man's voice, blunt and questioning, ultimately suspicious. He's followed Ross's voice, and steps through the door to the living room, disgruntled when he sees Ross sat in the spot that Trott was sat in. Ross would honestly swear he sees a flash of jealousy spark for a split second there, but whether it's for Ross or Trott, the dark haired man is no longer sure. 

He's not sure about very much between the two of them anymore, not since Trott.

In fact, this whole situation with the brunet has them fucked, and royally.

He has no idea how Smith actually feels about either of them, but he wants it sorted, made simple, and now. Clarity would be much appreciated.

“Well, it's Friday, isn't it?” He tries to keep his tone as innocuous as possible. The other man hasn't fallen for it, but keeps up his side of the charade, maintaining his serious look. “Nice day for a drink.” Ross waits for the man's reply.

The taller man crosses his arms over his chest with sharp movements. “Where.” Not a question. Ross feels like laughing. He doesn't bother holding up the strange veneer that their conversation has taken on, instead leaning and twisting further to the right to look Smith directly in the eye, a small smile wringing his lips.

“You know where.” The man holds his gaze for a surprising amount of time, a few heartbeats, as though testing how serious Ross is, searching him deeply with a single-minded stare. Ross doesn't flinch.

Smith's stance relaxes after a slight hesitation, shoulders dropping, corners of his eyes crinkling. Ross isn't sure that he knows what just happened, if either of them truly know what they've agreed to, but the atmosphere takes on a levity - slight, but there - that Ross has missed. It can't have been just a week, surely? 

It feels so much longer.

"There's no guarantee he'll be there." Smith's voice is at once both stony and supportive, and just as confused as Ross is.

"I know." There's another pause as both men look at each other, as though trying to judge what their next moves should be. Something feels new, but Ross can't quite tell what's changed.

Smith rocks back on his heels minutely, tipping his head back, and baring his neck as he sighs, "Right, I'm gonna get ready to go. You?"

Upon turning his head to the left, Ross notes the pitch-dark skies through the window, stars like holes in a heavy dark sheet now, mostly bleached by sickly-warm street lamps. "Yeah, reckon I'm pretty much there, already. I'll just get a coat."

The other man waits for Ross to turn back round, and smiles, almost gingerly, whatever promise was made between them nearly intimidatory, but reassuring all the same. Tangible, almost.

Smith backs out of the room, hesitantly, then bounds up the stairs.

The dark haired man drops his head again, alien giddiness making him grin like an idiot.

\---

Lights and and reflections stream past Trott, all his attention concentrated like a laser sight on his ultimate goal. He's running, feet slapping swiftly on the stone walkway of the bridge, and exhilaration is flowing through his veins in a continuous stream. He catches snippets of conversation, myriad details lost to the speed and thrill of running. A heady mixture of adrenaline and endorphins just dulls the burn in his legs and sides to a pleasurable level. The smokey city smell lingers in his nose.

His breath is carried away by the wind, which is howling from his right, across from the sound and over the bridge, the promise of rain dampening the air, fine moisture already hazing around the street lamps, leaving them fuzzy with iridescent haloes. 

The moon is weakly strained through clouds to the right, image doubled and torn on the roiling surface of the sound. The stars can barely be seen, freckling lightly the velveteen night. A veil of precipitation can be seen some distance off, hugging the far coast where the land curls back round in a lick near the sound's mouth, past the hulking silhouette of the city. Lights from buildings glimmer prettily on the unstable surface.

He's following the same route he has for the past few days now; the same path that he walked that night when the computer crashed. He knows where it leads, the flutter in his stomach present every time he thinks of them only capable of being drowned out by running. The benefit is he can go by their house, check out whether they're there. The burning desire to see them again scares him, just a little.

Trott doesn't want to imagine how creepy this seems. He finds it best just not to think about it.

He's in his leather jacket again, same as last week, jeans too. He probably looks quite suspicious - dressed in dark clothes and dashing about in the chill autumn evening. He just hopes the fact that he has earphones on and a playlist on his phone which he's listening to, entitled 'Running', will reduce any idea that he has sinister intentions.

He doesn't, really.

Well, maybe a little. 

He smirks at that thought, just barely, a curl to his mouth, then attempts to sober himself up. They might not even be there. They might not even want to see him. Ross hadn't attempted to talk to him a single other time after that, not in any more of their classes, or even after. He pretty much blanked him.

His spirit deflates. Trott doesn't think he'd want to talk to someone who would have treated him the way he treated them. He was actually a bastard to them. And all because of a sizeable chunk of self-loathing.

He jogs fleet-footedly down the matching stone stairs, and away from the brilliant light of the city proper now, the insecurity returns, crippling. His pace slows, until he's running on the spot, barely any sound from his light footfalls. There's no reason they would want to see him, none at all. All they were doing last week was a good deed, generous, and he just took it for granted.

His tear ducts sting. It's the cold. He should get moving again.

Trott builds his speed again, following the path that seems etched across his mind as though burned into his retinas. When he reaches their apartment complex, he can see the area they inhabit isn't illuminated. Hopping in one place in an effort to keep himself warm, Trott runs through where they might be.

This is a Friday. If they were there, lights would be on, playing on their games console in the living room, the brunet is certain. They won't be asleep, not at this time. So... The bar? Trott hopes that they're regulars.

With new purpose, he moves on.

\---

Alex knows something's different. It fairly buzzes between him and Ross, an optimism he doesn't remember feeling before buoying him on. As they walk, their shoulders brush, elbows clashing frequently, comfortable. He finds himself paying more attention than ever to the other man's profile, cut of his brow, how the wind ruffles through his hair, the way his eyes look when a street lamp catches them just so, making them seem like painstakingly chipped ice. Even in the cold, with his less than adequate coat on, he's warm, cheeks rosy from both mild exertion and his almost constant beaming.

Ross seems to be faring equally as poorly as Alex at attempting to be subtle.

The taller man knows they need to be careful, but it's all so new, he can't bear shutting it down now, for fear that everything falls apart.

No, it can't. Not now. Alex has waited, wanted, and wished so long.

Every facet of their conversation, no matter how mundane, seems made of the finest crystal now - he won't forget a moment of its fragile beauty. 

Not to say he never paid attention to Ross before.

Now he just has the excuse to be hyper aware of every intonation, fleck of humour, change of tone, bit of sarcasm.

It's all brilliant.

Alex almost regrets that they're nearly at the bar. Alex can't really remember much of the short walk outside of the scintillating conversation he and Ross shared. The whole walk was pretty much auto-pilot. He smiles ruefully.

They sit down at the bar, same seats as last week. There's a slight nausea that he feels, but Alex puts it down to anticipation, though for what, he's not too sure.

Due to their semi-regular status, the barman nods to them, waiting for their order. He keeps up a polite conversation, then leaves them to it. An almost bemused expression is seated on the older man's face, heavy eyebrows drawn together, as he watches their exchanges. Alex knows when the man has twigged what's going on between them, when an entertained smile breaches the man's features, and while passing, breathes to them, "Knew it was only a matter of time."

It's met with dual looks of shock.

\---

A couple drinks later, and both men are pleasantly buzzed. Alex is so focussed on his conversation with Ross, and everything else - the eighties pop, the patrons laughing, the occasional bawdy discussion - has become an accompaniment, white noise only. They haven't seen Trott yet, don't know if they will, but the alcohol has quelled that worry somewhat.

Alex feels strange though, a sinking feeling just below his heart, an unsettling fluttering deep in his stomach. It's been growing stronger all night. A lurking paranoia that he hasn't been able to shift encroaches. 

But he keeps talking to Ross, enraptured and wholly opposed to loosing the opportunity, to messing this up.

The bartender sidles up to them, a surprising show of care from him. His gaze seems locked on something, someone, on the far side of the room. He flicks his eyes back to the pair, and his face holds a deadly serious look. "I'm sorry guys, I think it's in your best interests if you leave. No offence." His tone is deeply apologetic. The man juts his chin in a small, sharp gesture, which the two men follow.

Three men are sat facing them with distinctly hostile body language, and impassive expressions. They don't look away. One lifts his hands to crack his knuckles.

Alex almost laughs. What a pathetic show, in this day and age. 

But the sense of danger does not leave. 

Alex turns back to the bartender, slides a couple of notes to him, the smooth grain of the lacquered wood of the bar silky on his skin. "Thanks mate." The bartender nods.

The auburn haired man turns to Ross, and looks him in the eye. They come to an understanding immediately.

With slight stumbles they stand, finding great difficulty in resisting the gravitational pull each seems to have. Alex straightens his coat collar, looking back at the louts over his shoulder. They seem to be deciding something, conversing and shifting as though to stand. Shit.

"Ross, let's go. Now."

They push through the busy bar to the archway door, both wishing they could get through crowds like Trott could.

\---

Trott can feel the discomfort in his leg muscles now, but he can still run - he's not quite winded. He'd forgotten how much he loved it; the freedom of carrying yourself at speed. He's nearly there, hardly any time left. He rounds the corner, cobblestones unsteady under his feet, and so he slows slightly, regulating his footing more. There's one turn left before he is upon the bar.

A sudden burst of wind whips to him, carrying voices, multiple, and he swears he hears Smith, Ross... And others. The blustery weather, paired with the distortion of currents that the tightly packed buildings around him causes, ensures that Trott only hears snippets. Low voices. Laughter? Shouting. Jeering. None of it from the two men that have been at the centre of Trott's thoughts for such a deceptively short period of time.

Something, some unknown instinct, tells him it's probably a good time to be careful. His footfalls become less frequent, silent, and he plasters himself to the brick wall, peering round the edge of the building.

Smith and Ross are indeed there - his vision seems to zero in on them instinctively, but then he notes their body language, Smith's arms crossed, Ross's palms facing placatingly forward. Both look set to run. The other three men across from them, only slightly older than Trott, from what he can tell, seem to laugh at whatever has been said, raucous and obnoxious. Smith gesticulates wildly in anger at something that's said, and all of a sudden, the man in the middle closes in, hands on hips, while the other two remain closer to the entrance to the bar, stances already confrontational and fists balled.

Trott can't help what he does next as adrenaline floods him, flinging himself forwards blindly to sprint the good forty feet to the perpetrators, his only mindless urge to protect the two men, no matter the consequences.


	5. Progression

The cold is a welcome relief after the warmth of the building, but the openness is disconcerting. The cobbled area is open and empty, only source of illumination the single lamp above the bar's archway, and the surroundings are cast in varying greys, resembling a charcoal sketch. Alex's night vision has kicked in, resulting in the strangely jolty, low-frame rate type greyscale sight typical of a late autumn evening. It reminds his just slightly fogged acuity of various points in his childhood of when the effect was wondrous, a strange aberration which left him waving his hands in front of his face and crowing to his weary parents in delight.

The rose-gold of nostalgia is unfortunately tarnished by his awareness of the circumstances, and he reaches to grab Ross's jacket-clad forearm, internally revelling at the new ability to do this freely, and he just can't get enough. They're about to set off, when the double door behind them opens, releasing strands of synth-pop into the unwelcoming cold, wind whipping it to striated shreds of harmony and pulse.

Alex turns abruptly to face the doorway, blanching upon seeing the three men step out, and his hair is buffeted by the wind, flicking sporadically in and out of his vision. He can feel it pushing at him, and he instinctually adjusts his stance to stop swaying as is dashes against him. Ross is doing similarly, arms crossed as his hands clasp at opposing elbows, shoulders clenched against the biting chill. He feels the slow secretion of fear, as the three men step forward a few paces.

Then they stop.

The middle one, the eldest of the three, and the tallest of their lot, smiles cockily, arms crossed. Both of the men flanking him are glowering, mirroring their leaders body language. The one on the left has a buzz-cut and a look of perpetual displeasure. The one on the right doesn't seem to have ever learnt to dress, tacky trainers paired with somewhat acceptable jeans, a tee in an unfortunate yellow, and an electric blue hoodie, the combination of which screams IKEA. They're not really much older than him and Ross, from what he can tell, all shorter, maybe around six foot, still taller than Trott, but burlier, obviously having spent a sizeable portion of their pathetic lives sealed in a gym.

A sneer spreads over Alex's face, newly unafraid to look over all three men's bodies. "The fuck's your problem?" He spits his words like they're venom burning at his tongue, and Ross turns towards him with panic, trying to persuade him to hush so they can leave unscathed.

But for once, Alex can't take it. It's been insinuated before - what with his lack of interest in sleeping with every woman that he sees - that he must be gay. Alex is more than comfortable with his masculinity, and right now he despises the fact that women are used as tools by men to affirm that they're 'safe' for other men to be around. Hates it so much. He's seen too many of his close friends hurt by this, no matter their gender, their orientation. All it does is hurt.

So Alex steps forward, and crosses his arms, ignoring the jeering of the lackeys, the guffaw of their apparent commander, and waits for what they're about to say, but ensures that he's ready to run - he wants to keep both himself and Ross safe, to limit suffering for either of them. He widens his stance as casually as possible, raising himself to the balls of his feet in an attempt to allow all gangly six-foot-five of him to be as noble as possible. He knows Ross is doing something similar, as the scuffing of the other man's shoes sounds to his right. A quick movement to his right grabs his attention, as on edge as he already is, but all it is is Ross lifting his palms in a fruitless effort to compensate for the auburn haired man's obviously more aggressive behaviour.

The tall man across from them says something, something that makes the other two pricks laugh, and in a furious burst, Alex swears like the heavens are collapsing, and gesticulates wildly, incoherently, made irrational and deaf and reckless by rage. 

There's a shift in the atmosphere, cold to colder, and his hear feels fit to burst, it's beating so quick. The middle one steps forth arms held out almost regally, smugness written into every line of his decidedly overly bulky body, while the two remain in their spots. A power play.

Alex realises now, though, that this occasion would have always ended in conflict. The only reason the men are here is for the fight more than anything. It's almost validating to know that his orientation (whatever it is) is not the sole cause of the confrontation. A flick of his eyes to Ross tells him the other man is just as resigned to this as he is. 

Alex breathes in through his nose, gelid air a sudden shock to his olfactory nerves, dizzying. Somehow, his heart beats with even more insistence, and his hands are trembling as he begins to curl them into seldom used fists.

There's a blur. A dark shape flits out of nowhere at speed, and the tallest man, their leader, is left in a heap on the floor with a howl of anger and pain. A figure with its back to them, shorter, stands over the bastard, legs spread for balance, shoulders pulled up slightly, leather jacket shining mutely where light catches at it's edges. The shadow is breathing heavily, breaths visible as their chest and shoulders raise with each. Both hands are fisted, and held semi-lax at their thighs, elbows held back behind their narrow waist slightly, arms and forearms making obtuse angles. The backs of their hands are visible, the knuckles of which are bleached white in a harsh contrast to their jacket. Their head is bowed slightly, hair just long enough to fall in their face, and obscure their features.

Alex's brain is still reeling, trying to catch up with events. His brain can't decide whether to fixate on the vexed look on Ross's face, the silhouette, or the man on the ground alternatively snarling expletives snarling in discomfort, face covered in a lurid patina of scarlet liquid. 

Before he can, though, the other two men charge, and the black figure surges forward again, once more throwing Alex into disbelief.

\---

There's a satisfying crunch below his left fist as it slams home, blood jettisoned in a fine spray. His opposition can't do anything to stop his attack, taken aback as he is. The single punch decks the prick, leaving him sprawled on the bumpy cobbles, impact no doubt nearly as painful as the hit itself. The man, three or four inches taller, and many kilograms heavier, stood no chance. 

Musculature doesn't equate to skill.

Why do people never learn this?

The other two rally to accost him, and Trott embraces it, takes it all in his stride, racing to meet them head-on. His blood is singing as he smirks, the old rhythm of fighting returning, technique sloppy from years of not practising, but ability still more than present.

The shortest one, one with a buzz-cut, pulls his whole upper body back as he prepares to fling his right arm around in a single devastating, but poorly planned manoeuvre. Trott merely waits for it, ducking under, sidestepping to be on the right hand of the man, grabs the arm with his right hand, and pulls sharply to unbalance the man, making him vulnerable. He uses the rotation of his waist and upper body this provides to increase the momentum in his left arm, resulting in him jabbing the man in the side powerfully, making the man grunt in pain. Trott uses his left handed stance to his advantage, stepping swiftly forward to position his right foot behind the man's right leg. Departing from correct technique, Trott pushes the man with all his strength, resulting in the almost-bald man falling backwards over his leg to smash into the floor, head hitting solid ground with an awful fleshy thunk.

Having instinctually kept track of the other man, Trott knows exactly where he is, and pivots on his firmly planted right foot, swinging his left leg upwards and round behind him in a vicious back kick, heel connecting squarely with the man's chest, resulting in a quick expulsion of air from the man's lungs. He falls to his knees, winded and struggling to breathe, palms splayed over the cobblestones.

Trott gives them all matching looks of distain, purposefully stepping past them, his glare levelled heaviest at the leader, who is currently clutching at his face, blood vivid rivulets down his wrists and over his hands. Trott inspects his own left hand pointedly, seeing the now-smeared blood, then flicking his eyes back to the cowering man, raising his eyebrow imperiously.

Softly, Trott hisses, "Fuck off, mate..." And enjoys the man's desperate scramble to a standing, watching as he pays no heed to his injured compatriots.

The shortest man then turns to look at the two men that have somehow become the centre of his affections, so much so that he would physically fight for them, and is met by matching looks of shocked fascination and disbelief.

He freezes, realising he hadn't factored in whether the brief show of intense violence would actually work to turn any feelings they had away from him.

There is a silence, a good few seconds of nothing but the wind clutching at them, and a fine drizzle carried by the wind in fits and bursts sets in.

Ross shifts slightly, cold starting him and winning over his shock, and he utters a single word. "Woah."

Smith laughs, then, slight delirium edging it harshly. 

Trott just shifts, uncertain and uncomfortable.

They both know by now that Trott most certainly would not have done that for just anybody. Wanting to break the impasse, Ross quickly quips, "Can we keep him?" Cringing at the phrasing, but knowing that something had to be said.

A smile breaks over Trott's face, one of few genuine for a good while.

"Of course you can." He replies, and Smith's smile is like a sun breaking through the heavens, and Trott's heart soars. He rushes forwards, overcome with realising that finally, finally, there's something here for him, something to live for, before he knows it, he's in front of them, and clutching at them as he pulls them into a strong embrace. Trott can feel how stunned they both are, but accepting and malleable, so he can't stop what he does next.

Balancing on his toes, and using the two men for leverage, he quickly looks between the two, checking their expressions, then moves his right hand to caress Smith's cheek, tenderness startling him internally, as he presses a chaste kiss to Smith's mouth, then to Ross's, sealing whatever unspoken pact had already be confirmed between them.

He lowers again, glancing downwards in sudden self-consciousness, running his left hand through his hair, and steps back, hoping what he did was okay, that when he flicks his eyes back up they aren't showing revulsion on their faces. 

Instead, the two men exchange glances, some sort of agreement passing between them. Ross speaks. "Do you want to come back? Um, to ours?" The puppy-like look Ross gives him melts the brunet, just a little.

He nods. 

"Of course."

They walk away, towards the shadow-lined walkway hand-in-hand.

None look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, all of you who made it this far. This was my first foray into writing fics, and without you kindly commenting and leaving kudos, I doubt I would have made it past the first chapter. Love you all.
> 
> Siera. X
> 
> P.s. If there are any glaring mistakes that ruin your immersion, please let me know, so I can fix them.
> 
> Also, if the fight scene is unclear, I do apologise. I did karate for as long as Trott did in real life, but it's such a fast sport that it can be difficult to visualise all the necessary techniques accurately. :s


End file.
